WE KNEW , BUT WE DIDN'T KNOW

 

CHAPTER SIX—OUR FAVOURITE GAME

 

I stuffed the pretty velvet pouch into my shabby coat pocket, the one that didn’t have a hole. While walking, I never met people’s eyes, and this occasion was no exception, but I noticed that I wasn’t looking downward as much as usual. I found myself extremely interested in the activity around me. There were quite a few people out and about. Of course, it was almost noon on Saturday, but it was the easy mix of pedestrians which intrigued me. There were almost as many of us as there were of them, and no one seemed to care one way or the other. It was somehow exhilarating. I felt as though I could be completely myself or anyone else for that matter. There were delicious aromas as well: buttery crepes and breakfast pastries from the bakery, and what smelled like liquid chocolate, caramel, toffee and liquorice from the sweet shop. I felt so hungry that my knees wobbled, but I forced myself to be sensible. After all, food at the Windmill Heights cafeteria was free, and even though it was pretty bland, it wasn’t half bad.

It’s funny, though, how all carers have the same worn down look even when they’re good-looking. I had a slender, supple body, good skin, glossy hair, full lips, big eyes that have been called “tawny,” “honey” and “topaz,” but I know that I always looked poor and unkempt. And it wasn’t just the cheap clothes. It was the posture and the deferential walk. Why couldn’t I walk tall and proud, or sway my hips provocatively or slink like a model pretending to be feral on the catwalk? No one would stop me. There weren’t any rules which dictated how we had to walk, so why did we all walk the same? I decided then and there to alter my walk, but slowly, gradually so that no one would notice until a final transformation had been achieved. That was my first inkling that I had a new project. I was going to reinvent myself. If I couldn’t change my destiny, at least I could change myself. It’s not that I wanted to pass. I merely wanted to turn them on their heads.

I was delighted to see that Kathy looked much improved when I entered her room. She had braided her long hair and was wearing silvery-pink lip gloss.

“You look lovely, Kath. How are you feeling?”

“Surprisingly good, Sophie. For the first time since the operation, I don’t feel as though my guts have been stirred and scooped out of me. Who knows, I might even make it to the fourth.” We were supposed to think that was a big deal, a great accomplishment, to achieve four donations. To us, the only advantage was that it gave us more time, sometimes as much as a year, but usually more like three or four months. Still, three months was a lot better than nothing.

“You’d better!” I used my bully voice.

Kathy smiled, “Oh, really, and why is that?”

“Because I’ve bought you a present. I had it made for you, specifically for you. And I want to look at it for a long, long time.” I plunked my bottom on Kathy’s bed, hands in pockets.

Kathy flushed. She shook her head. “But whatever possessed you to do that, Sophie?” Her eyes looked troubled. I didn’t know how to explain myself. I didn’t know where to begin.

“I don’t know, Kath. I honestly don’t know. It was something I wanted to do more than I’ve ever wanted to do anything, so I did it. Are you ready?”

“Yes, yes! It’s in one of your pockets, isn’t it? I pulled out the velvet pouch, which looked so clean and smooth even though it had been inside my grubby pocket. “Open it,”I instructed in a loud whisper.

Kathy opened the bag and stroked the velvet box as though it were a tiny green kitten. “That too, open that too.” She did. Her gasp was high and clean and sharp. “Oh, Sophie! Honest to God jewelry! Where on earth did you find this? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! Will I be able to keep it, to wear it? Won’t they take it away from me?”

“They can’t take it away from you, Kathy. I bought it for you. It’s a gift. It belongs to you. That would be theft. Theft is against the law. Don’t worry about that. Please, just try it on. I’m dying to see it on you.”

Kathy slid the ring up her middle right-hand finger. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s not too loose?” I asked anxiously.

“No, it’s perfect. I feel like Cinderella. You’re my fairy god-sister.” Kathy’s smile was everything I had hoped it would be. “But I wish there were something I could give you.” Kathy added. “Isn’t it pathetic? I’m thirty-four years old and I have nothing to show for it. No cherished mementoes. Except for this ring. But how will you get it back, Sophie, if I complete when you’re not with me?”

Her bleak question startled me. “I’m here to care for you, Kathy. I know we have to take it day by day, but I promise I’ll do everything I can to delay your next donation for as long as possible.”

“You mean my last donation,” Kathy’s tired eyes looked unflinchingly into mine.

I bent my neck so that my face was very close to hers and I whispered. “I’ve heard things, Kathy. I’ve heard about exemplary carers getting exemptions or reprieves. We have to find a sympathetic ear.”

“Oh, Sophie, if that were true, wouldn’t I have been spared my first two donations?”

“Not necessarily. It may not be too late. I have no idea how any of this works, this reprieve process, but I intend to find out.”

At that moment a gaggle of doctors strode into Kathy’s room. The regular attending doctor of the floor was a tall, angular woman with thin hair always bound in a meagre bun. She was flanked by five or six interns, who looked young and nervous. I knew that was my cue to exit and I asked Dr. Underwood when I could return. “Give us thirty minutes,” she told me and then Kathy was surrounded by the coven of white coats. For the first time, I understood how very little time she had left, and I panicked.

I didn’t feel up to taking the elevator to the dingy cafeteria, so I walked to the other end of the third floor. The waiting room was shabby, with dusty fabric plants and two-year-old magazines, but there was really no other place for me to go. I was overcome with this false premonition that I would see Carla and that we would arrange to meet and reminisce, at her flat, not mine, because I imagined that hers would be much nicer. She would look strong and healthy and we would hatch a plan to become flat-mates. The fantasy was so pleasant that I half-believed that she would actually walk into the waiting room and our friendship would resume on the spot.

I passed the time by remembering how Sylvia, Carla and I used to play our family game at Ingersoll. We would stroll on the grounds, our arms linked and describe what our parents would be like if we had parents. Our descriptions never varied; rather, they became more detailed and intricate with each successive telling. These fabrications gave us great comfort.

Sylvia’s “parents” were jolly and garrulous. Amusingly, they both had red hair, so that no one could comment, “Ah, so you get your colouring from your mum (or your dad).” Moreover, she had a clutch of siblings, varying in number from four to six and they were all carrot-tops as well. It was a loud, fun household with lots of kisses and hugs and riotous shenanigans such as pillow fights, tickling sessions, popping corn and toasting marshmallows.

In contrast, Carla was an only child and her parents were reserved and fiercely protective of her. In her home, (a mansion with thirty rooms and stained glass windows) there were rules which had to be followed strictly because Carla had to spend most of her spare time studying to become a doctor. Her father was an oncologist and her mother was a paediatrician. Carla’s bedroom was lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases, and her parents bought her dozens of books every month: medical texts, biographies, history books and scientific journals.

And my family? Like Carla, I was an only child. I wanted my parents’ undivided attention. They looked like movie stars: he was a dead-ringer for Robert Redford and she could have passed for Julie Christie’s twin. My parents spoilt me shamelessly. I had two wardrobes filled with expensive clothes that were more suited to a fashion model than to a child (and later adolescent). I was allowed to wear cosmetics starting at the age of thirteen, and my beautiful mother bought me the poshest products: Clinique, Estee Lauder, Lancôme and Shisheido. But best of all, were the birthday cakes and daily treats of doughnuts, ice cream cones, boxes of milk chocolate and home-baked pies, scones, biscuits and tarts.

Our kitchen was a marvel. It was designed to look like an American diner of the 1950’s. We had a booth that could comfortably seat six with a juke box on the Formica table-top. The floor was black and white checker-board linoleum, and an aqua toaster sat plumply on the pale-pink counter-top. It was impossible to feel glum in our kitchen.

And so, Sylvia, Carla and I were loved and wanted by our imaginary parents for quite a few years. Just around the time we turned sixteen, however, we stopped talking about them and soon stopped thinking about them. They had died gentle, natural deaths by the time our years at Ingersoll were finished.